


J'ai Fait (I Promise)

by Ocean_Born_Mary



Series: Forever (I Promise) [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: AU, Come Undone, Depressed Athos, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Future Fic, It all ends up okay, M/M, OT3, Reincarnation, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:22:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ocean_Born_Mary/pseuds/Ocean_Born_Mary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis had taken up baking.  Porthos liked tinkering around with an old car that they’d found in town.  Athos…Athos read.  (But he’d always liked to do that).  And rode (and that hadn’t changed either).  </p><p>In which the boys learn just how they fit in this new world together.</p><p>This is a direct sequel to If I Have to Walk the World (I Promise).</p>
            </blockquote>





	J'ai Fait (I Promise)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a direct sequel to If I Have to Walk the World (I Promise). You don't have to read the others in this series, but I would suggest reading at least that one first. ;)
> 
> Thank you to all the wonderful readers! This is for you.
> 
> And the boys are not mine.

_Don't say you want me, Don't say you need me_

_Don't say you love me, It's understood_

_Don't say you're happy, Out there without me_

_I know you can't be_

_'cause it's no good_

Depeche Mode—It’s No Good

 

_Who do you need, Who do you love_

_When you come undone?_

Duran Duran—Come Undone

 

           Porthos had quickly realized that something was wrong this time around.

            He’s so busy trying to take in the feel, touch, scent of Athos that he doesn’t quite understand what is happening until the man has all but collapsed into tears.  It isn’t unheard of for Athos to cry.  But this is… 

            Athos’ fingers dig into his arms and Porthos grips back just as hard.  He all but drags the other man behind stage.  Out of the neon lights and the fog machines, Porthos sees Athos for the first time in nearly a hundred years…and stops breathing. 

            He’s never seen the other man this thin. The circles under his eyes had never been this dark.  There’s a tremor in the hands that haven’t let go.  He can feel Athos trying to crawl into him, pressing against his chest, fingers spasming desperately…

            Porthos thinks that this will be the worst of it.

            Realizes all too soon that he is wrong.

            The first few days are spent in a hotel room, where Athos has buried himself between them and stalwartly refuses to move. Aramis is just as concerned as he is, has checked Athos over several times to try and find if there is a physical reason for this behavior.  Porthos can tell that he’s found something, but won’t say it in front of Athos, instead just whispers reassurances into Athos’ ear. 

            They finally convince him to shower and dress, and they take the time to speak in hushed whispers.

            “What is it?” 

            “His body…I think…” Aramis is angry, his fists clenching.  “His arms, his ribs, his fingers, his legs…they’ve all been broken.  Most have healed wrong.” 

            “Do you think he did it to himself?” Porthos hears himself ask.  Has to wonder.

            “No…some of the injuries appear to be over a decade old.”

            Athos appears before he can say more. “I have a…a house.” Athos clears his throat. “I’d like it if you came with me…”

            “Of course,” Porthos says immediately. “Anywhere.” 

            There’s relief in the way that Athos’ shoulders sag.

            The anger in Aramis’ eyes grows.

            They discover what Athos already knew.

            Some days are good.  Some days are bad.

            On the bad days Porthos and Aramis smother him between them, kiss every open patch of skin that they can find. They trace patterns on his stomach, whisper sweet nothings in his ear, hold him together as he falls apart.

            On the good days they go riding together (just like they used to) and pretend that the world hasn’t changed and they are still Musketeers (because what else could they be?) and lay out under the stars. Porthos will work Athos open with fingers and tongue, pin him down as he takes Aramis in his mouth, and he forgets everything except for this, right here, right now.  Afterwards, they become a giant tangle of limbs and shiver covered in cold, tacky sweat and other things.

            But Porthos likes the really good days the best. The ones where Athos is just Athos. These are the days where he plays his violin.  Where he laughs as Aramis pulls him into an impromptu waltz and purposefully takes long, slow licks of his cherry lollipop all while sliding out of reach.  The days where Athos smiles. 

            Eventually the bad days all disappear. Which leaves good days and really good days.  Athos tries (for the millionth time) to teach Aramis how to play the violin.  Aramis pulls out an electric guitar in response and causes Athos to flee for the fresh air outdoors.  It ends in a wrestling match out in one of the paddocks, and the horses watch disinterestedly as Porthos proves his prowess.  Which is all well and good until Athos tickles his side and then Aramis joins and they’ve both ganged up on him. 

            So the good days get better and the bad days get further away. 

            Aramis discovers Rocky Road ice cream. Insists on slathering Porthos with it and licking it off. 

            Athos has found a used bookstore in the little town he’d so determinedly ignored.  On the good days he lets Aramis drive him into town in that Ferrari (speeding too fast around the bends with Porthos in the back, laughing at this feeling of invincibility—Athos just closes his eyes and lets the wind blow his hair this way and that, will claim he gets carsick, but Porthos sees how peaceful he is) and buys a stack of books.  He writes his name in the corners, reads each one and lovingly places it on the bare library shelves.  When they arrived there had only been a worn copy of the d’Artangan romances. Now four shelves held Athos’ coveted prizes.          

            Which is probably why it takes them by such surprise. 

            “Have you seen Athos?” Aramis is holding a spoon covered with chocolate batter.  He’d developed a sweet tooth over the decades (always had one, but now he could really indulge), and insisted on a fresh desert at least once a week. “I want him to try this.”

            “He said he was going riding. Should be back for lunch. What are you making?”

            “Don’t you wish that you could know?” Aramis teased, licking the spoon.

            “C’mere,” Porthos reached out, snatching Aramis around the waist and kissing him.

            “Could have just taken it off the spoon,” Aramis mumbled after Porthos was done plundering the inside of his mouth.

            “Now where’s the fun in that?”

            “Well, it would have certainly been less fun for me. And for your information, I am making a triple chocolate bundt cake with strawberries.  For Athos.”

            “For Athos,” Porthos repeated.

            “Yes.  I think he’s getting sick.” 

            “So…you’re making him cake?”

            “Well…I…yes.” 

            “Shouldn’t you make him soup or something?”

            “No one wants to eat soup. They want to eat cake.”

            “They want to eat…” Porthos shook his head. “Just let me know when I can have a piece, would you?”

            “I told you, it’s for Athos.”

            “He isn’t going to eat it!” Porthos called over his shoulder as he walked away.

            “Where are you going?”

            “To go find him.  If he really is getting sick he shouldn’t be out riding.”

            “And he calls me a mother hen,” Aramis grumbled.

            “That’s what you call baking a cake for a man who ‘might’ be sick!”

            “None for you!”

            “That’s what he thinks,” Porthos muttered mutinously as he made his way towards the stables.  “Bake my own cake is what I’ll do.  See what he does then.  Mine’ll be chocolate and vanilla.  And I’ll make my own frosting.”

            Porthos stomped into the stables. All of the horses were there. Athos’ favorite, a roan mare that he refused to call anything other than ‘Beast’, had been brushed until she gleamed, but did not appear to have left her stall.

            Athos had very few places that he went to on his own. Riding. The library.  Hell, the man had nearly refused to shower without one of them right in the other room for months.  Aramis and Porthos had been carefully encouraging him to do more things on his own, but hadn’t pushed about the reasons he was so suddenly attached. They all had their own demons to contend with.  They were just glad he was drinking less.

            Maybe they should have been concerned about that.

            Porthos turns back towards the house, passing the kitchens—Aramis was singing something that sounded suspiciously like Madonna—and heading towards the library.

            There was half a mug of cold tea on an end table, and Porthos wandered over to the abandoned chair.  The shelves were slowly being filled, but Athos had been pawing through his worn copy of the d’Artangan chronicles again. Pages were dog eared and bent, certain phrases underlined and copious notes filled the margins in Athos’ neat, but microscopic, print. 

            On the back of the last page Porthos found a singular piece of folded lined paper—one side contained biology notes, the other a chart.  Across the top were each of their names.  And then going down…years. Beside certain years were the letters _B_ or _D_.  In others were different professions, and in some places were large empty spaces.

            He studied it blankly for a minute before it came together.

            Athos had been trying to trace them. This is what he remembered of when each of them had been born.  Of when they had died.  Of what they had done.

            He’d lost track of Porthos between 1900 and 1950. Of Aramis between 1880-1895. Of both of them sometime during the 1700s. 

            Curious, Porthos sat down to study the paper more closely.

1966—Aramis hit by intoxicated driver, 51st street, NYC.

1967—Porthos’ unit reported missing.

1968—Athos killed by Agent Orange.  Reborn Michael Dilbert.

1950—Athos’ plane goes down in North Korea.  Taken POW—suspected cause of death: waterboarding.  Reborn…

           Porthos eyes scan the page.  Athos is a lawyer.  A professor. He dies young again and again.

           He remembers them together during the years of the Civil War—but they were in Europe.  Athos was different then—not as fragile.  But then again, it appears that he’s died nearly twice as often as the rest of them. Damn. 

          “What are you doing?”

           Porthos nearly jumps out of his skin, realizes it is Aramis, and lets out a relieved breath.  “Look what I found.”

           Aramis studies it, eyebrows furrowed.  Porthos sees the instant he understands. 

          “He’s been trying to figure out the pattern.  When and where we’ll be reborn.” 

          “Forget that!  He was waterboarded to death! You, you were hit by a fuckin’ car and didn’t tell me!”

          “Athos was across the street when it happened,” Aramis sighs, running a hand down his face and smearing chocolate on his forehead.  “He was about sixteen I think.” 

          “He saw it happen…and neither of you thought to tell me?”

          “What did you want me to say, Porthos?  Yeah, last life I got run over and it hurt like hell, but hey, here I am. You’ve got a lot a room to talk, Mr. MIA.”

           “I didn’t know I was reported MIA.  Moron to the left of me triggered a landmine.” 

           “Ouch.”

           “Nah, it was instantaneous.  Didn’t really feel nothing.”  Porthos glances down at the paper.  “You think we’re all going crazy?”

           “Going? We were crazy when we met each other.”

            Porthos can’t help but snort.  “True. Dragged Athos right down with us, we did.” He slides the paper back into the book, replaces it on the chair.  “He wasn’t riding.  And he isn’t here.”

            “Maybe he finally got wise and went to bed.”

            “When he’s sick?  That’ll be the day. I’ll check just in case. Look down here, would you?”

            “Sure thing.” 

            Their bedroom is empty, but the covers are all pushed towards the bottom of the bed.  None of them ever seemed to feel like making it. He checks the bathroom, the myriad of ‘guest rooms’, gives up and heads back downstairs.

            Aramis can sense the welling concern. “Car is still here…maybe he went for a walk.” 

            “Maybe,” but Porthos hears the doubt in his own voice. 

            The timer is going off in the kitchen and Aramis pulls out the chocolate cake.  Normally the scent would make Porthos’ mouth water, but Athos hasn’t been out of their sight for more than an hour or so at a time since Aramis gave up his singing career and they all moved in together. 

            Maybe Athos isn’t the only one having trouble this time around. 

            “I’ll check upstairs this time, you try outside.”

            Which is how Aramis finds himself in the bedroom, straightening out the bed sheets and mumbling about ‘lazy asses’ under his breath. 

            He doesn’t hear it until he is almost out the door, turns back around, eyes narrowed. 

            There it is.  From the closet.

            It sounds suspiciously like a whimper.

            Aramis tiptoes over, and, fully expecting to get a face-full of unpleasant animal, jerks open the door.

            The scream causes him to slam it shut and the second it closes the sound cuts off. 

            Aramis swallows hard, unsure of what he has just experienced.  They may have a banshee on their hands.  It must be heralding his death…

            If he didn’t open that closet again, Porthos was never letting him live it down. 

            It creaked open an inch, the scream erupted, and Aramis pushed it hard while simultaneously jumping backwards. He cleared his throat and whispered, “Hello?”

            Pressing his ear against the door, certain that he was going to regret this, Aramis heard the familiar sound of French filtering through the thick wood. 

            “Notre père qui es aux cieux…”  _Our Father who art in heaven…_

            “Damn. Athos,” Aramis called through the door.

            “Athos,” his voice was disjointed through the thick wood.  “Thomas’ brother. Notre…” 

            “Athos, I’m coming in.”

            The prayer stops. “Aramis?” 

            Aramis can’t help the sigh of relief.  “Yes, Athos.”

            “Notre père…”

            “Athos. I made a cake. You should come out and have a piece.” No response.  “Alright, then I’m coming in.”  No response.  “Athos?”

            “Thomas’ brother.”

            Panic is welling up inside of Aramis.  “Athos, don’t move, I’m going to get Porthos.” 

            “Athos, Aramis, Porthos. Three Musketeers.”

            As it turns out, Aramis did not have to move.  Porthos was already thundering up the stairs.  “I searched the grounds and couldn’t find him…why are you sitting in front of the closet?”

            “He’s in there.”

            “What?”

            “He’s in there.”

            “Well then open it,” Porthos huffs, shoving Aramis out of the way and tugging on the handle. Aramis winces in anticipation and isn’t disappointed.  Porthos shuts the door heavily and leans on it.  “What the hell was that?” 

            Aramis clears his throat and inches closer to the door.  “Athos, love, would you like to tell us what’s going on?” 

            He’s praying in Latin now, and Aramis remembers when he first taught him those words. When Athos had found him kneeling in a church, confessing his sins.  “Don’t you ever feel that you should ask for redemption?” Aramis asked when Athos wanted to know what he was doing.

            “I don’t need a priest,” Athos replied.  “I have you.” But he’d knelt beside Aramis anyway, bowed his head and clasped his hands.  “Teach me?” 

            “I’m trying to remember,” Athos’ voice is muffled through the door, but Aramis can pick out the sound of congestion in his voice.  So he is sick. 

            “Trying to remember what, love?” 

            There’s a sneeze, a sniffle, and a quiet, “Qui sus-je.” 

            “Who you are?” Aramis echoes.

            “Athos,” Athos replies. “Thomas’ brother. Musketeer.”

            “You’re the best sword fighter I’ve ever seen,” Porthos supplies, “and when you play the violin it makes men weep.” 

            “Well, it makes Porthos weep. Ouch!”  Aramis rubs at his shoulder where Porthos pinched him. “You are our friend, our brother, our lover.” 

            Athos is praying again.

            “We’re going to have to go in.”

            Porthos is right of course. He almost always is, even if Aramis would never tell him that.  He looks towards the bed that he just made and sighs.  “Hand me the comforter, would you?  Idiot is probably in there running a fever in his underwear.”

            The image of Athos hot and sweaty in his underwear was usually a pleasant one, but for some reason, Porthos doubted that this exchange was going to be any fun. 

            “On the count of three, we open it up and go in.” 

            “One…two…” Open, scream, slam.

            “What happened to three, Porthos?” 

            “Eh.  Overrated.” 

            Aramis stepped forward and promptly tripped over something solid.  “Athos?”  It quickly skittered away.

            “Don’t touch me,” was the response he got.

            “Athos, I think you’re running a fever…” 

            “Shh. If you talk after lights out, they’ll come for you.” 

            Porthos blundered forward and landed on top of Aramis.  It takes a second to situate themselves, enough time for Aramis to process what was being said.

            “Who?”

            “The guards.”

            “Athos, where are you?”

            “I don’t know.” The prayer begins again in Spanish, a familiar refrain.  He pauses.  “I’d see you sometimes. When I was in the camp. Before I died…I thought Porthos was holding my hand.  And you told me to go to sleep.  So I did. But when I woke up you were gone.”

            “We’re not going anywhere Athos,” Porthos replies, inching closer. 

            “That’s what you said last time. And then you were both gone.”

            Fair point.

            “I’m sorry, that’s not what I…sometimes it just gets all confused…and I don’t remember who I am.”

            “You are Athos,” Aramis supplies carefully.

            “And that is all that matters.”

            “Sometimes I’m Michael. His father beat him.”

            Aramis winces. Porthos growls.

            “Sometimes I am Ian, and I am flying a plane.  But it crashes and I spend the rest of my life a prisoner…” 

            “You are Athos,” Porthos replies.  “Just Athos.”

            But it seems to make no difference.

            By the thin band of light coming from under the door, they can see as Athos curls in on himself—as if here, in this small ball, he may be able to hide from the world.

            Aramis edges closer and Athos immediately whispers, “No, don’t touch me.” 

            “Why not, love?”

            “Because…if you touch me…and you aren’t really here…I can’t…I can’t…not again…”

            Aramis reaches out in response, certain that he can put an end to this.

            “Please don’t.”

            “Do you trust me,” Aramis replies, hand hovering over Athos’ head.  When there is no response, he repeats it in French. “Avez-vous confiance en moi? Athos?” 

            “Tous pour un, et un pour tous,” Athos replies.

            Aramis’ hand drops to the mess of curls, and a strangled sound leaves Athos.  Porthos slides beside him, grasps his shoulder, and squeezes. “We’re real this time, Athos. And we’re right here. We’ll still be right here when you decide that you’re ready to talk.” 

            Athos uncurls a little then, leans into Porthos’ side and reaches out to drag Aramis with him. Aramis takes the opportunity to wrap the comforter around the three of them, even if it makes him start to sweat almost immediately. 

            “Just stay quiet,” Athos asks, closing his eyes and burrowing into Porthos’ chest. He can feel the heat from Athos’ cheeks through his t-shirt, signals to Aramis that the other man is definitely sick.

            They do as requested and stay silent for all of thirty seconds before Athos sneezes all over Porthos’ arm and he moans “Ewww” at the same time Aramis sing-songs “Bless you!”

            Athos himself devolves into a coughing fit that has Aramis trying to move so he can help the other man sit up, but Athos won’t let go.  “Don’t let me scream,” Athos’ voice is hoarse and Aramis wants nothing more than to make him a cup of tea and get him into bed.  With or without his clothes on at this point.

            “We won’t,” Porthos promises. “Why are we so quiet?”

            “He doesn’t like it when I scream,” Athos yawns into Porthos’ shoulder. 

            “He isn’t here,” Aramis replies, “and I like making you scream.” 

            “Not that kind of screaming, the kind of wake up in the middle of the night screaming when you remember that your brother is dead, and your wife killed him, and that nothing is worse than holding the men you love in your arms as they bleed out…not even being stuck as a prisoner without them screaming.”  Athos sneezes again.  “He isn’t here?” 

            “No, he isn’t. And even if he was, you know that he couldn’t get through us.” 

            “I think he’s dead too,” Athos is half asleep now, words slurring together.  “I think it was the scotch that did it…” 

            Within seconds he’s snoring, breathing through his mouth around the congestion. Aramis complains about it, briefly, and then wishes for it to come back when the screams begin.

            Because Athos is right.

            These are not the screams that he teases from the other man when he pins Athos down and uses mouth and fingers to explore.  Not the screams that he’s heard when Porthos is buried deep inside, when he worries at the spot on Athos’ hip that always drives him crazy (no matter how many lives they live). They’ve had an eternity to discover each others bodies, know just how to bring each other to the edge, to work out that desperate cry…

            This is not a lusty desperation.   

            This is pain. Suffering.  Fear. 

            “Athos! Athos!” Porthos is trying to rouse the other man, but even though his eyes are open, gleaming in the dark, he isn’t responding.  “We’re right here, Athos, right here.”

            Aramis is frozen In horror. This is the sound of his soul splintering apart. 

            The screams have subsided and Athos is murmuring instead, a litany that can be barely be made out in the confines of the closet.  “J'ai fait tout ce que je peux et ce n'était pas assez.,,,J’ai fait tout…J’ai fait tout…”

            _I have done all I can and it was not enough…_  

            Words are welling up, but they are stuck in Aramis’ throat. 

            “Athos, écoutez-moi. Vous avez fait tout votre possible. Laisser aller. Laisser aller.”

            _Let it go_ , Aramis chants quietly with Porthos, willing Athos to hear. _You have done everything you can, Athos, let it go._

            “Porthos?” Athos asks finally. “Aramis?” 

            “Right here,” Porthos replies, “Right here.”  

            “Let’s get you out of the closet and into bed,” Aramis wants to get out of here before he explodes, needs light and air and to see that everything is okay—and so he doesn’t realize what he just said.

            Porthos is chuckling, and then dissolves into very unmanly giggles. 

            “Aramis…I’ve been out of the closet for well over a century now.” 

            “And in your bed too,” Porthos snorts.

            “Glad to see we’re all doing better,” Aramis snaps, worry turning to irritation.  “No cake for either of you.” 

            “I’m sorry,” Athos murmurs. “I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s been awhile since it has been….this bad.”

            “Yes well,” Aramis moves to stand, nearly falls as Athos snatches his ankle.

            “Don’t go.” 

            “Athos.”

            “I’m just…I’m having a hard time today…” Athos swallows hard past the razor blades in his throat.  “My head hurts, my throat hurts, my nose is all stuffy and I’m having a hard time remembering that…that you’re here.”

            “Then why didn’t you come find us?” Aramis asks gently, frustration gone as quickly as it came. 

            “Because I didn’t think you were real…I was reading and then I saw you getting hit by that car and Porthos’ picture in the paper and I thought I’d lost you again.  I…I don’t think that I can make it through another century without you…How can you love me when I’m losing my mind?”

            “You think we didn’t know you were losing it when we first met you?  You spent more time in a bottle than on land,” Porthos squeezed Athos close and kissed his head. “We can talk this all out later. Aramis is right, you need to get to bed.” 

            Athos stands with little complaint, sways under the sudden dizziness that accosts him, and is agreeable to the arm around his waist.  Aramis disappears only to come back a minute later with a large glass of water and two Tylenol. “Take these, and get some rest.”

            “So much better than the days you used to dunk me in an ice bath,” Athos jokes, but his eyes just look tired.

            “Only time I could get you to take a proper bath,” Aramis replied, pulling back the covers as Porthos helped Athos settle, “I’d never met another noble that insisted of smelling like the horse stable.”

            “Still does,” Porthos complains, smoothing Athos’ hair back from his forehead.  But the other man doesn’t hear him, because he’s already asleep.

            “I need a drink,” Aramis immediately announces and Porthos follows.  There are so many choices nowadays.  Tequila and vodka and rum mixed with Coke.  But they tend to stick to basics.  Wine. Brandy. Whiskey. Scotch. Rum.  

            Aramis reaches for the scotch, Porthos for the Whiskey and they both grab a glass.  They drink in silence, listening for a scream.  It doesn’t come. 

            Porthos slams down his glass and stands, chair scraping loudly against the tile.  “We shouldn’t have left him up there alone.” 

            “What kind of trouble can he get into up there?” Aramis asks tiredly.  This has been too much.  He had thought they had moved past these insecurities of Athos’, had not realized just how deeply they had taken root.

            Feels guilty, because he should have known…he should have known…

            He had become complacent.  In the century of Athos’ absence, he had forgotten just how deeply that man’s emotions ran, how his anxiety would eat away at his insides until he self-destructed.

            Aramis had been looking for excessive drink, for reticence from them.  But Athos had been almost clinging in his nature.  And while he enjoyed several particularly fine vintages, he had not been found drowning himself in a bottle.  He did not see the way Athos positioned himself in a room—always watching the exits. The way he tried to stay between him and Porthos when they were together—the same way they once slept only when Athos had a particularly bad day.  The way his eyes lingered on Porthos’ form, not with desire but something darker (desperation?), and he’d been caught staring at Aramis in the same manner.

            These things Aramis had put down to Athos trying to figure out where they all fit in this new world of shiny gadgets and indoor plumbing.  Aramis had taken up baking.  Porthos liked tinkering around with an old car that they’d found in town.  Athos…Athos read.  (But he’d always liked to do that).  And rode (and that hadn’t changed either).  And stared far away as if he could see something they couldn’t (and Aramis hadn’t really wanted to know what it was that he was staring at—didn’t want to know what happened during the years that he couldn’t find him, because he’d promised, he’d promised, he’d fucking promised that he would be there), and dutifully tried Aramis’ deserts without complaint. 

            In the back of his mind Aramis has known this was coming. 

            How many lives could a man live (and remember) and not wish for nothingness?

            Except there was this thing, burning inside of him, which would not even let him entertain such thoughts—not if there was a chance that he would see Porthos and Athos again. 

            So Porthos climbs the stairs and Aramis pours another glass—he’ll take this one from the Athos’ playbook on _Drowning in Self-Loathing_ —hopes it will suffocate the guilt.

            “ARAMIS!” 

            The glass shatters as it hits the floor, but Aramis is already halfway up the stairs.         

            Porthos is in the doorway.

            The bed is empty, the window is open…

            Distantly, Aramis hears the sound of thunder. The sky has grown dark, how long were they in the closet?  It doesn’t matter. The window is open.

            Aramis gently lays a hand on Porthos’ arm. He can see the panic in the other man’s eyes, know what he is thinking.  “He promised, Porthos,” Aramis whispers.  “It isn’t what you think.”

            “What if he didn’t remember,” Porthos’ voice is nearly silent in the empty room.  “What if he didn’t remember?” 

            Something cruel inside of Aramis wants to shake Porthos, tell him that it doesn’t matter, because no matter how many times they die it all starts over again, they’re stuck on this carousal and can’t get off, can’t forget anything, not Savoy, not killing a man who was once his friend, losing a woman he’d loved to a Cardinal he despised, not the image of Athos dying of pneumonia, not the feeling of missing them…

            But Aramis doesn’t want to forget. Not really.

            He wants to remember.

            That drop of sweat gathering at the dip of Athos’ collarbone, that he’d suck away as the other man moaned beneath Porthos. The scent of sweet hay and sex that always filled the bedroom if Athos was in it.  How Porthos’ large hands could easily cup the back of his head, so gentle one second, and pull until his neck was exposed and he could despoil it.  He doesn’t want to forget the feel of skin on skin, of tongue and lips and fingers. The taste, the scent, the touch.  Wants to remember what it is to ravage and be ravaged by the men he loved.

            Thinks that even if he has to live for eternity without them, that those memories, knowing that such a thing existed, would be enough. 

            Or perhaps just drive one insane. Out a window. 

            So Aramis squeezes Porthos’ arm and steps forward towards the window.  It is his place to check.  His penance.

            He cannot help but cross himself as he reaches the edge of the billowing curtains, fingers coming to rest on the crucifix at his neck, itching to count the beads of his rosary.  ( _How can you still do that?_ Porthos asks one night during their second life. _Knowing that we don’t go to heaven, that we’re just reliving life here over and over again?_ Aramis has no reply, cannot explain his faith. _This is heaven_ , Athos mumbles into his shoulder blade, breath moist and warm against the bare skin. _If that isn’t proof of God then I don’t know what is._ Perhaps they’d forgotten about his vengeance as well).

            Aramis closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and peers towards the ground below.

            As distant lighting brightens the sky he can see broken limbs splayed this way and that, knows that there is no way to have survived the fall…

            It is the bed sheets.

            “Porthos,” Aramis’ voice is dry, but calm. “I think we’d best check the stables.”

            “Oh thank God,” Porthos gasps as he turns to thunder down the steps.  “Gonna kill him for scaring me like that.” 

            Aramis is only a step behind him when they reach the stables.  As Aramis suspected, Beast is gone. 

            “Where do you think…”  Porthos is already saddling his jet black stallion, and Aramis reaches for the dapple grey that he’d taken a liking to.

            “Where does Athos ever go when he wants to think?”  

            “The river,” they intone together.

            “In this weather,” Porthos complains, “he’s going to give himself pneumonia.” _Again._ _Thank God there are antibiotics in this century._  

            “Between drinking and the river,” Aramis swings himself up into the saddle, “I’d rather have the drinking.”

            “He’s all melancholy when he drinks,” Porthos replies as they take off into the night.  The first raindrops are falling heavy and cold.  Aramis wishes for a wide brimmed hat—thinks that perhaps he’ll have them made.  Something about seeing Porthos and Athos in leather (and with that hat quirked just so), always made him feel a little more at home.  (It also made him feel other things, but that generally involved peeling off the leather—and was not appropriate to think about right now). 

            “Yes, but at least when he drinks we know how the pattern goes.  Too much alcohol, blames himself for failing the world, falls into bed, we get to show him how much we love him and value him and how much of a failure he is not.”

            “You mean you get laid,” Porthos deadpans, urging his steed onward.  Lighting comes down too close for comfort and the horse nearly startles, but they both manage to keep control. 

            “Well…when you put it that way, it sounds rather selfish.”

            “Why do you think we love you so?”

            “And here I thought it was for my tight ass, witty charm and dashing good looks.” 

            “Don’t sell yourself short Aramis. We also like your cake.”

            “How charming.” 

            They are drenched by the time they make the river.

            Beast is tethered to a nearby tree, but Athos is nowhere in sight.  

            “ATHOS!”

            “ATHOS!” 

            Lightning splits the sky and they see him, curled in a ball on the bank of the river, head buried between his knees.

            “Athos,” Porthos whispers, kneeling behind him.

            Athos makes no attempt to uncurl himself.

            Porthos reaches out, but Aramis grasps his wrist, shakes his head, gestures to the sword that he sees across Athos’ knees. The scrollwork on the handle is familiar, the foil has been well oiled and is polished to a shine.

            Aramis is watching the rain sluice down Athos’ neck, sees how the thin t-shirt clings to the other man’s spine, still thinner than he’d once been.  “Athos, love, where are you at?”  (Where, when, _who_ are you with?)

            Athos sneezes, lifts his head to wipe his nose across his sleeve (useless in this downpour), and snorts.  “I didn’t go away, Aramis.” 

            “Sure looked like you were somewhere else.”

            “I was thinking…I was thinking that we used to mean something.  Once.”

            Aramis thinks he understands.

            In the leather.  In the blue.  They did things that mattered. Things that meant something. They helped people, saved people, did not kill in meaningless battles.  Not like the ones today.  There was a code of conduct, of honor.  People’s word meant something.  Hands were used for healing—not for maiming.  There had been evil in that world, there had been suffering.  But this lifetime was darker still.  How many times had they been shoved into a life where they were forced to kill?  How many times had they witnessed hatred destroying innocents, been unable to step in…Aramis knows how tired he is of it all.  Has seen it reflected in Porthos’ dark gaze.

            And Athos…

            “We still mean something,” Porthos growls. “We still have a purpose.”

            “I’m tired,” Athos says suddenly. “I’m tired of constantly hurting others. I used to help people…despite what I was, what I had done…I…I don’t think I fit in this world anymore.”

            The desire to do something, to be something, was warring with Athos’ desire to lay down and sleep for countless more ages, to let it all pass them by.  He’d managed that for a few short months.  Thought he could maybe (please) be happy here, with just them, this time around. But where Aramis has found baking, and Porthos has begun tinkering, Athos is still thinking—still wanting and wondering, and wants to do something.  Anything. 

            “Nonsense,” Porthos ignores the sword, pulls Athos back against his chest and locks him in with two strong arms. “You belong here, with us.” And Athos lets him bury his nose in the wet hair, lets him mumble reassurances, but Aramis can see the truth in Athos’ eyes. 

            Feels it echoed in his own soul.

            Men like them don’t fit in a world like this. Aren’t meant for cold wars and spying. Aren’t meant for desk jobs. They should be riding through endless fields, swords on hips, guns at side, with men that they love and trust absolutely.  Aramis wonders if Athos misses d’Artangan.   Has ever turned to rib the young man about Constance, or saw something that he wanted to share with the lad, only to realize that he wasn’t there. Wonders if some mornings Athos wakes up, and thinks that he’s running late for morning parade, searches all over for a doublet that crumbled to dust long ago.  He’s caught Porthos doing it, once or twice, more in previous lifetimes than now.  Aramis worries that he’s forgetting his friends, but would never tell Athos this.

            He knows that Athos already feels guilty. Thinks it is his fault that they are stuck like this.  If there is blame it is his and Porthos’, for cementing Athos so firmly within them that he could not go on.  That he laid down his sword and let go.  So Aramis lets the good moments overwhelm the dark ones, basks in the sight of morning sunlight on Porthos’ shoulders, of moonlight illuminating the curve of Athos’ thigh. But Athos was never good at that sort of thing.

            His propensity for drink showed that.

            They manage to manhandle him back on his horse. Get him to take a warm shower and change into one of Porthos’ overlarge t-shirts.  Porthos lays out fresh bedding, Aramis tries to clean up the puddle on the carpet under the window they’d left open.  And then they all crawl into bed. 

            Athos is subdued the next morning. Porthos won’t let him out of his sight. Aramis slices up the chocolate cake for breakfast, Porthos even gets two pieces, Athos only eats half of his.

            He moves to the library, picks up Dumas, but Porthos’ hand comes to rest over his. 

            “There’s nothing there for you, Athos,” Porthos whispers.  “We’re right here.”

            So he lets Porthos lead him upstairs, spends the morning wrapped in warm arms and dozing.  Aramis brings him tea, makes him take more Tylenol, mutters about ‘stupid germs’, scolds him for being out in the rain, for sneezing, and kisses him tenderly on the head. 

            It’s nearly a week before Porthos stops following him around and Aramis stops mother henning him. 

            Athos thinks about having a glass (bottle) of wine or two, but remembers the man who had raised him this time, how broken he had been, and thinks better of it.  He cannot drink when he is this weak.  Not when he doesn’t have the strength to climb out. 

            So Athos believes that their worry has passed (doesn’t see the shared glances when he is turned away), and resolves to not let them know his thoughts again.  Not when it so clearly hurt those that he loved.  He has spent countless years alone.  He can manage a few more decades with them at his side.

            “He’s not drinking at all anymore,” Aramis notes lightly one night. 

            “Would have given anything for that at one time,” Porthos replies.  “Now I think it is worse than the nights where I thought he wasn’t going to get up again he’d drowned himself so thoroughly.”  

            They have to fix this. 

            It is Aramis who sees the article in the newspaper.

            “I want to go to New York,” he announces the next morning. “Tonight.” 

            “I’m not flying,” Athos replies abruptly. He won’t fly ever again if he has a say in it.  Won’t get shot down.  Unless, of course, it is for them.

            “No,” Aramis agrees, “we’re driving. I’ve already got little Jimmy coming up to take care of the horses.”

            “I’m assuming you’ve already packed?” Porthos asks dryly.

            “Of course,” Aramis beams.

            “Athos,” Porthos whines, “you aren’t seriously going to let him do this?” 

            Why they still looked to him for permission, Athos never knew. 

            Athos shrugged.  They had nothing better to do.

            “Why not?”  He cleared his throat.  “I assume you have plans as to where we are going to stay?” 

            “Plan?”  Aramis sounded wounded.  “That’s your job.”

            The grin that pulls at Athos’ lips is the first real one they’ve seen in a long time. 

            “Bunch of idiots,” Porthos stomped away, “I’m living with a bunch of idiots.”

            “Correction!”  Aramis called, “You are madly in love with two idiots!”

            “Why do you think I’m still living with you!”

            There was Athos’ smile. 

            Aramis’ good mood lasted until the first rest stop.

            It turns out that Athos really did get carsick.

            “You shouldn’t have taken that last bend at 55,” Porthos sighs, and Aramis winces as he hears Athos heave again.

            “You’d think he’s been on a bender,” Aramis listens to see if Athos is done and…nope.  “I didn’t think he’s been eating enough to puke that long…”

            “He hasn’t been,” Porthos stomps in then, kicking open the bathroom stall.  “How much have you had to drink?” 

            It had been a moment of weakness. He hadn’t been sure if he’d make it through a two-day car trip with them bickering.  Athos had thought a drink would help.  Except one turned into two, and two turned into ten.

            His eyes are bloodshot as he peers up at Porthos. Athos’ only response is to reach up. Porthos takes his hand, pulls, and tugs him close.  “Do you want to go home?”

            Yes.  He wants to go back to Paris, 1630, when they were just figuring this whole damn thing out.  He wants to discover what happens when his beard brushes the back of Porthos’ neck all over again, wants to find out what happens when he suckles a bruise to life behind Athos’ knee.

            “No.” 

            “Okay.  You alright to ride?”

            He’d fall off a horse, his drunk ass would spill right out of the saddle.

            “Yeah.” 

            He feels guilty about the concern in Aramis’ eyes, doesn’t deserve Porthos’ gentle touch leading him to the car, understands that he has failed again.  Swears to himself that he’ll do better next time.  Knows that he won’t.

            The next day is better.

            Athos is sober.

            Porthos insists on driving.

            And Aramis is singing loudly with his window rolled down.  Young girls stop to stare, giggle and wave in their direction.  Aramis blows kisses and waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

            “Do you miss them?” Athos asks.

            “Who,” Aramis asks carefully, not sure that he is prepared for a deep conversation right now.

            “Women.”

            Aramis laughs.  “How can I when Porthos is working on his curves for me as we speak.” Aramis reaches out to rub Porthos’ belly (which is still flat, despite Aramis’ teasing about the amount of food he eats), and Porthos smacks him away.

            “No more touching for you.”

            “No fair.” 

            Athos thinks of the feel of Milady’s nails in his shoulders, how she’d clench around him and drag them down, leaving bleeding gouges that would ache for days.  How she’d push him to his knees, make him beg, leave him wanting.

            “Me either,” he whispers and Aramis and Porthos glance at each other as he stares out the window. 

            Never once have they left him wanting when he’s asked. 

            Aramis takes up his singing again, some bawdy Irish ballad they’d learned years and years ago.  The image of Aramis attempting to step dance on a rickety old table, falling off and landing in Porthos’ lap, giggling insanely and filled to the brim with Irish whiskey as they all staggered home brings a smile to his lips.  No, he doesn’t really miss her at all anymore. 

            They make it unscathed to the Big Apple. Athos hates the noise and the crowds. Immediately longs for the quiet countryside.

            Aramis drags them to Ellis Island. To the top of the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State building.  He insists they eat three different kinds of pizza and drags them up and down countless streets.  They spend the night in a hotel overlooking Central Park, and then Aramis drags them up again in the morning.

            “Thought you didn’t have a plan,” Athos yawns over breakfast, picking at his eggs.

            Aramis shrugs, glances at Porthos, and becomes decidedly interested in his toast. 

            Athos doesn’t feel up to pushing, just follows them out into the early morning, where countless cars are already honking, people are pushing one another out of the way, and no one has the decency to tip their hat.  He hates it here.

            He’s so wrapped up in marveling at how far humanity has slid, that he doesn’t notice that they’ve stopped until he runs into Porthos’ backside.  The other two are looking at a sign posted outside of a building, and Athos doesn’t see what is so special.

            _New York Philharmonic Orchestra Open Auditions; Today Only_

            “What?” he asks when they both turn to look at him. Porthos opens up the bag he’s been lugging over his shoulder.  Pulls out his violin case.

            Athos looks at Aramis, Porthos, back to Aramis. Understands.

            “No.” 

            He turns to flee, doesn’t want to face this, stops when he feels Aramis’ fingers close over his wrist. 

            “You said that we used to mean something,” Aramis whispers, slowly turning Athos so he is facing them, tilting up his chin with one finger.  “We still can.”

            “This isn’t…” Athos shakes his head.

            “Think of how many people you could save with your music,” Porthos replies, “think of the good you could do.” When he holds out the violin, Athos has no choice but to close his fingers around it.  Taking a deep breath, he moves inside. 

            In the hour that he has to wait, Athos thinks better of this stupid idea several times, turns to leave only to see them both standing there, so sure.

            So he takes the chair on the empty stage, picks up his bow… 

            The music is gentle, lilting, happy days spent in fields, lying in bed, of being in love.  But underneath it are darker notes, here, there, and suddenly they’ve overtaken.  The story of a man who has loved and lost.

            The darkness becomes a cacophony, this soul is lost in a storm of bereavement and self-loathing, notes clashing against one another as they pick up speed and intensity.

            And then they stop.

            Aramis finds his breath caught in his throat. Feels Porthos tense behind him. Athos could have jumped, could have ended it all…

            But there…

            One note.

            Two.

            Suddenly they can recognize themselves in the music, sense the new man that Athos has become.  Soft at first and building into something new. Something wonderful. They can feel the gentle touches, the smoldering gazes, the wanton desire.  Sense the love, the need, the joy.  This is the music of a man redeemed.  It builds in intensity, a circular frenzy until suddenly it drops off into that same gentle beginning.  But there are no dark undertones here.  Just happiness until it fades into nothing.

            Athos has never played so well before.

            It is nothing that music lessons have taught him.

            This is his ancient, weary soul, crying out to the world. 

            Aramis can feel a tear slide down his cheek, sees it matched in Porthos’ own eye.  Watches as Athos stands, bows, flees the stage and every person in the room stands to applaud him.  The conductor is following him with fast steps. 

            “What did they say?” Aramis asks later, when Athos appears looking dazed and confused.

            “That I need to be here at 8:00 am for practice tomorrow.  They’ve given me first chair.” 

            Porthos’ whoops, disturbing everyone still waiting, wants to tell them all to go home, the spot has been filled, instead grabs Athos around the waist and whips him around.

            “But…” Athos murmurs when he’s back on solid ground, “the horses.” 

            Aramis clears his throat.  “Are already on their way up.”

            “What?”

            “I found an estate…about an hour from here. Twice as much acreage, stables already built…Porthos and I can drive you back and forth.”

            “An…”

            “I may have already put money down on it.”

            “Shouldn’t have given him access to the bank account,” Porthos laughs. 

            “As if you are innocent in the whole matter,” Aramis grumbles. 

            “How did you…know?”

            “As if we ever had any doubt,” Porthos slaps him across the back.  “Come on, we need to celebrate!” 

            Athos is sitting in the first chair 15 minutes early the next morning.  The conductor reminds him strangely of Treville, and he doesn’t want to disappoint the man by being late.

            Apparently the boy next to him doesn’t feel the same way.  “Sorry!” he yells, knocking over a tuba, landing on a drum and sliding into place beside Athos.

            “Late again,” the conductor sighs.

            The boy opens his mouth to explain, the conductor holds up a hand to forestall it, and the boy just grins. As the conductor begins giving instructions he pokes Athos in the side.

            “I’m Charles,” he whispers. “Friends call me Charlie. You look familiar, do I know you?”

            The boy beside him has the same impish smile. The same voice. Even the same hair.

            “No,” Athos murmurs hoarsely, “Friends call me Athos.” 

            “Athos,” the boy rolls the word on his tongue experimentally and picks up his violin, fingering the strings the way Athos taught him over 300 years ago. 

            “Charlie?” Athos tries out the word, remembers a young man hotly refusing to be called Charles. 

            “Hmm?” the boy asks, rifling through his music until he finds the right piece, placing it on the stand in front of them. Athos is expecting him to turn around, waiting for the joke that was always on the tip of his tongue. Wishes that he knew. Wouldn’t wish that on anyone, especially not him…

            Wonders if this boy will spend every life looking for the woman he loves, even if he doesn’t remember her, just knowing that she is out there, somewhere. 

            “Thank you,” he whispers.  _For saving me from the fire, the firing squad, myself_. “I don’t have any of the music yet.”

            “No problem.  Are you new around here?” 

            “Yes.  Some friends of mine…we bought a house a little way out of the city.”

            “I wish I could move out of the city, Connie and I are stuck in this little tiny studio apartment…” 

            He doesn’t know why the words come rushing out. “You guys are welcome to stay with us. We have more room than we know what to do with.”

            “Are you serious?”

            “I think my friends would like you.”

            “I…let me talk to Connie, but…that would be…wow.”

            “Why don’t you and Constance meet us for dinner tonight?  Aramis likes to cook and always makes too much for the three of us.” 

            They are interrupted by the conductor raising his arms, but Athos catches the boy nodding furiously beside him. And for the first time in a long time, Athos feels at home.

           


End file.
